


Fic:  War Stories

by lucybun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, mention of war and war injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:52:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/pseuds/lucybun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has listened to war stories all his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic:  War Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Written for July's cycle of The Game Is On Challenge over on LJ in which each writer had to write a story inspired by one of three poems. I chose "Wrappings" by Michael Bartholomew-Biggs, the text of which can be found [here under the heading "Poem 2."](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/43454.html#cutid1)

  
He remembered sitting at his grandfather’s feet while the old man and his friends smoked Montecristos and reminisced about The War. Every year, every holiday, every family do, eventually found John sitting on the green rug in his grandparents' sitting room listening to stories that never really changed. Dunkirk and Arnhem echoed in his brain, meaningless fairy tales until school taught him what those names meant. Taught him they weren’t just places those men had visited, they were places they’d been sent to… and that many of their friends never made the journey back. When he was thirteen, he became obsessed with The War and constantly pestered his grandfather for more stories, more details, until one day the man said, “You’ve heard all the stories I’m able to tell, boy. The rest will have to come from your teachers and the telly."

John never asked about it again, but he kept returning to the sitting room, always at his grandfather’s feet, always listening.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

They came when John was seventeen and lost. He didn’t know what to do with the rest of his life and couldn’t see how he was expected to know at that point. Then one Saturday his mother made him dress in his best trousers and jumper to go to his grandparents' for a visit with an aunt and cousins he hadn’t seen in over a decade and an American uncle he’d never clapped eyes on. He’d just wandered back in from showing one cousin the “weird” front seat of their car when he passed by the door of the sitting room. He peeked inside and saw his uncle and his grandfather speaking to each other in a way that reminded him of green rugs and the scent of cigars.

He hovered in the doorway, afraid of interrupting, till his grandfather said, “Come on then,” and gestured to the patch of carpet at his feet.

John smiled shyly at his uncle as he settled down to listen to new words. Words like Dak To and Kham Duc. Words he didn’t remember from school but that sounded exotic and alluring. Words that made him think of damp heat and the excitement of fear. He sat enraptured as the men spoke until his grandmother called them into dinner. As they headed to the dining room, John noticed for the first time his uncle’s awkward gait. He caught John looking and smiled when the boy flushed in embarrassment.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he reassured. “She’s not original from the factory, but she does the job. Knock on wood,” he joked as he tapped on his prosthetic leg.

“You lost it in the war, then?”

“That and a few other things,” he answered with an odd smile, but they were in the dining room by then, and John felt the chance to ask questions had passed.

But he thought about it. Thought about a young man near his own age, trapped in a strange land with a piece of himself missing and wondering if he’d ever see home again. He thought about the people who must have taken care of him, saved his life and what they could of his leg, until finally John thought perhaps he didn’t feel quite as lost as before. He started dreaming about drab tents and bone saws. He started dreaming of a way to weave a tale of his own without freezing in trenches or wandering in the jungle.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

The house was full of strangers wanting to welcome him back. His shoulder was still in bandages and there was an ache in his leg that wouldn’t go away. He was limping toward the front door when the sound of a familiar voice speaking in a familiar cadence made him stop to look inside a sitting room filled with familiar faces. Then he spotted Clara’s niece sitting on the rug at his grandfather’s feet.

“There he is! Come join us, boy.”

John, mindful of his damn leg, said, “I don’t think I can handle the floor right now, sorry.”

The old man looked at him and tilted his head toward an empty chair John hadn’t noticed. “I think you’ve earned a proper seat, don’t you?”

John met his eyes for a moment before he looked down at the young girl and instantly recognized the gleam of fascination in her eyes.

“Not right now,” he answered. “I just need some air.”

Someday he’d have a story of his own to tell, but not today. Not this story.


End file.
